Seed and Stone
by Rivergift
Summary: A moment in the early stages of Moria, focusing on the developing relationship between those who would become the Three Hunters, a friendship worthy of song.


_The Three Hunters have always fascinated me - this strange trio that covers the main races of Middle-earth, a uniquely balanced circle of trust, loyalty and love. So here is an exploration of what might have been an early stage in their relationship: the friendship that held an Elf and a Dwarf on the paths of ghosts 'for the love of the Lord of the White Tree', that caused an Elf to tarry East of the Sea despite the call of the gulls, that led a Dwarf to Elvenhome in defiance of all preconceived notions. A snapshot of Moria._

 _Written for the June 2015 Teitho challenge, Circles - and placed first! Very surprised and honoured, thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read the stories._

* * *

The walls were scarred.

That was the strange thought that Legolas's tense mind happened upon, this solemn day. A day? Had it truly been but a day? But yes- his warrior's sense of time was undiminished even in this prison-house of cold caverns and empty shadows. Thirteen hours had worn by, time's passage achingly slow. The caves seemed to close in upon him, an oppressive, malevolent dark that hung almost tangibly in the air. The low, unbroken song of nature was nowhere to be found here. The communion of all living things, bird and beast and leaf and sky, that ran through his being and pulsed in his veins: it was cut off, and he was lost.

With an effort he tugged himself from those musings. They led him perilously close to panic, a foe he had not combatted for long years. No enemy could make the prince of the Greenwood pale, no wound could make him weep, but this darkness...

It had an almost physical weight to it. A creeping menace that went far beyond the mere lack of light. The dark he could endure, but the absolute lack of life, of growing things, of breath and song and spirit of Ennor, and always, always, beneath it all the hint of a Shadow that echoed the terror of Dol Guldur.

The walls.

A sharp effort brought him back. The Fellowship was resting an hour along the day's trail, after the younger Hobbits' sighs had grown too loud to ignore. In truth, they were all weary, and their spirits worn thin; the dark seemed to trouble them all, all except the Dwarf, perhaps. The Hobbits had cast themselves down in their customary pile, huddled close together, their voices hushed. Mithrandir had settled himself ponderously near the centre of the group, his keen eyes regarding first the path, then the various members of the Company, with seeming equanimity. But a well-concealed tension in his hands betrayed him: he was not at ease, either. Boromir had withdrawn to the other side of the Hobbits, and was staring distrustfully into the darkness. Legolas could not blame him for that; he himself could not bear to trust the shadows. Aragorn and Gimli were nearer to him, the former leaning against a wall with deceptive calm- but the same tension that hung over the wizard held him as well- and the latter standing, feet planted firmly into the ground, before the entrance to the next hall.

He could find no rest here, and so he had spent his time regarding the walls, and that was the conclusion he had come to: the stone was scored, marked by blade and mace and... something else... a black line here and there, scorch marks perhaps? But surely a fire would have eaten more than that. Or perhaps it was that even fire could not breathe down here, lacking as it was of air and light and life itself-

"Khazad-dûm is beautiful, my friend."

It took great effort not to startle, and only the iron discipline of centuries of training held him in check. _Aragorn_. The Man was not looking at him, but his eyes were following the same marks Legolas had seen. Legolas frowned. Of all people he would not have expected this from his friend.

Aragorn was taut with tension, almost as much as he himself was, although perhaps it was of a different kind. He remembered the strange conflict that had sparked between Man and Wizard on the choice of path- an argument in which he had wholehearted supported Aragorn- and although the Man had acquiesced gracefully enough once Caradhras proved impossible, an undefined sorrow lingered in him. He knew Aragorn understood and respected the Dwarves- but then, Aragorn had lived amongst, dealt with, and learned to love all sorts of beings, from the Shire-hobbits to the Bree-folk, the Gondorians to the Rohirrim, the Haradhrim to the Easterlings, the Dwarves of Erebor, the Elves of all three strongholds. Sometimes Legolas thought that Aragorn had come to understand almost every race that breathed on this earth, and he envied and wondered at the Man in equal measure. But respect was all well and good. Beautiful? How could these dungeons be beautiful?

He stared at the Man long and hard, pushing all his frustration and fear into the intensity of an Elven gaze, but Aragorn's eyes were not on his. He looked instead to the darkness, the long unwinding shadow before them, and Legolas saw again the weight of a grave and bitter memory written in the hollows of the Man's face, the lines on his brow, the sorrow in his eyes. It only baffled him further. Aragorn had tread the paths of Moria before, but he had never asked his friend to speak of those days, and Aragorn had never offered. What he did know was that if the memory of that dreadful road haunted his friend still, he had no wish to learn more of it, and still less to see it for himself.

"Beauty?" He asked finally, as much to pull his friend from the ghosts of the past as to distract himself from the spectre of the present. "It is all but stone, and ugly stone at that. If there is workmanship here, or creation, I see it not."

At the edge of his vision he saw the Dwarf stir, bristling, but he was past caring for the wounded pride of a _nogoth._

"The stone holds the Song, as much as the trees, Legolas. They are all a part of His creation, and once they sang to each other."

"Those days are long gone," and he barely held back _as are the days when Dwarves and Elves walked together in fellowship._

"Perhaps." Aragorn reached out, and touched a marking almost reverently. "A faded age, and an ancient majesty that we shall not see again. But that does not diminish its nobility."

"You speak in riddles. I see no majesty, faded or not. Greed led them here, and greed drove them out, and greed shall yet be our doom!" The words were out before he could check them on his lips, quivering with a deep-rooted anger. He closed his eyes. They were true, or so he thought, but he should not provoke the Dwarf, not here, not now.

Gimli turned sharply, but before he could open his mouth to speak something resembling an apology, Aragorn was on his feet, one hand on Gimli's.

"Then truly you do not understand, Greenleaf."

"Then tell me!" He swung to pin Aragorn with his eyes, aware that his desperation was leaking through the cloak of calm he normally drew about himself, but he could not bring himself to stop. "If there is beauty in these shadows, I would see it. If there is Song..."

"There is," and there was understanding in Aragorn's look. "If you will listen. I am not fit to reveal the secrets of the Dwarves' craft, nor do I know more than the barest essence of it. But if Master Gimli is willing..."

He and the Dwarf froze in perfect synchrony, and he saw a hint of mirth curling at the Man's mouth. He hesitated. Dark were the days, that an Elf turned to a Dwarf for guidance! And yet, here they were, in the bowels of the earth, surrounded by stone. Perhaps a stone-master would tease out the lore of the mountain.

He inclined his head.

* * *

Anger, coal-hot and fearful, was lancing through his veins. In his ears he heard the echo of the Elf's light condemnation, the long history of his people reduced to a few paltry words in the arrogant creature's dismissive voice. And around that, below that, surrounding it, the echoes of the stone. The beat of the mountain. The thread of soul-deep connection that bound every child of Mahal to the earth... but it was twisted, frayed, terribly broken, and the echoes here were fragmented, tainted, torn- oh, for the lost majesty of his kin-

 _If Master Gimli is willing..._ Only his respect for Aragorn kept him from flinging off his restraining hand and showing the Elf, blow for blow, the strength of Dwarves. That the flighty Elf could speak so carelessly of this most sacred of Dwarven monuments, their stronghold of ages past- it was not to be borne!

Then the Elf nodded.

Gimli blinked. For a moment, his fierce fury had been mirrored in the other's features, and he had been sure Legolas would stalk off to pace or brood or whatever it was Elves did when their feathers were ruffled. But something gave in the Elf's face. A weariness, a hint of desperation. Perhaps...

And Aragorn, after all, was a Man well worthy of looking upon the halls of Durin. He had spoken well of them, just a few moments before. That had surprised Gimli: it was no mystery to him that Aragorn was haunted by deep tragedy wrought in Moria, and the Man's coiled tension was evident. But the respect in his voice, and the love...

Yes. Yes, he would reveal to them, just a little of the rich tale of the Dwarves.

"Many think that we hold no reverence for Eru." The Elf looked startled, and Aragorn raised an eyebrow. Gimli was surprised at himself; that was not how he had imagined starting. And yet. "They remember only that Mahal made us in secret, forged us in flame unknown. But we remember that when Ilúvatar might have cast us down forever, when the Seven knelt before him, he did not strike them down. We were born in mercy."

In the bare light of Gandalf's staff, he saw Legolas's expressionless face, and Aragorn's slight smile. Then he turned his eyes away, to the great echoing expanse of the halls. Where once his kin had delved, deeper and ever deeper, seeking the centre of the earth, looking to bring forth beauty from the grey dim. But now the halls were silent.

"Of the Seven Fathers, only one name am I permitted to speak to those not of our blood. Durin, the Deathless."

The Elf stirred. Gimli almost sighed. "Deathless?"

"Death is not only the cessation of breath, Elf. Your people may claim it to be so, but what does the word of an immortal mean, in defining death?" Legolas tensed, but Aragorn murmured something too low to be caught, in an Elven tongue, and the Elf stilled. "I mean not that you do not taste death," he added, in all fairness. "But... life is memory. Life is emotion. Life is legacy. And in that, Durin shall live on as long as Dwarves walk this earth. He led his clan to the Misty Mountains, and..." the wave of his hand took in the enormity of these caves, the latent beauty in them. "And all Khazad-dûm is our heritage. In the earliest of days, he set out to seek the heart of the mountains, that Dwarves might live in pulse with the song of the earth. The rhythm of stone, of good rock, that echoes in us today: we have it because our first Father dared the darkness, to release the life within.

Perhaps when we leave these halls, we shall pass the Dimrill Dale, and there you may glimpse a miracle of days long gone. For there lies Mirrormere, Kheled-zâram, the lake that crowned our first King. The stars are arrayed upon his head forevermore, testament to the royalty of his blood.

But nobility draws the hatred of evil things, and from age to age the Dwarves have fought this evil. And fallen to it, yes, but never without a bitter struggle." He closed his eyes, and behind his eyelids the hunting, the sacking, the hounding played out. The blood. "These halls, and not so long ago the Lonely Mountain, for ever it has been that those who stand against darkness will be assaulted by it. These walls..."

He traced a marking, unaccountably close to tears. What this place awoke in him- the sense of a devotion older than he, the heart-song of his longfathers pounding in his ears, and above all the gaping, ragged edge of all that had been lost. All that his people had had stolen from them across the ages, it all seemed to coalesce here, in this ridiculously simple thing.

"The Dwarves mark each cavern," he managed, softly. "In truth, each empty space. Because we know each one. No two stones are the same, and yet stone is all one. A mountain is an entity, with a pulse throughout each cave, and yet each hall resonates to a different note. And so we carve our recognition into the walls, our reverence. It draws us closer to the earth, for Mahal was our maker, but the earth... the earth is our mother, each and every one of us.

But these are defiled. Do you see? Goblins and orcs have no care for the roots of the mountain. Stone groans at their heavy tread. If I had the time, and the tools... I would set this right, at least. But..."

Across the room, Gandalf had risen. Their respite was soon to be over, it seemed. Always the need, the rush to fight the growing shadow, and no time to repair, no time to renew, no time to mourn over lost glory or lost life.

"But our bane is ever before us," a low voice murmured, the strain of a kindred sorrow in it. Gimli looked at the Elf, and saw the warrior in him, and an echo of his burden: a legacy of beauty, lost.

"Durin's Bane," he agreed, softly. "Our bane, perhaps. And the bane of all free peoples."

* * *

 _Durin's Bane._

The thought awoke a cold horror in Aragorn. He closed his eyes, leaning against the wall, allowing the strength of Gimli's kin-home to support him. For had he not always known? Even years before, treading these paths in a different time and different company, the encroaching Shadow had made itself known. This was not an ancient tragedy, a war lost in history. This was a present darkness, suffocating in its intensity, fierce and ruthless and, he now understood, unavoidable.

For Gandalf... For his old friend, for the leader of the Company, for this grey pilgrim who was so much more- Durin's Bane would soon be another's-

He cut himself off almost forcibly. Foresight was a curse as much as a gift, and in times like these it was definitely the former. The dread of the past was little when set beside the cold certainty that had clenched round his heart, immovable as Gimli's rock: the Fellowship would see the light of day again, but their leader...

With difficulty he drew his attention back to the scene before him. Truth be told, the storytelling session had worked out better than he had expected; for a moment he had been sure both Elf and Dwarf were about as likely to skewer him as to speak to each other. But now they stood as if held in thrall, looking at each other in a strange mixture of grief and anger and a hint of understanding.

They had suffered much, these two, and as Gimli's tale had drawn to its dark end he had seen, suddenly, that suffering to a new depth. For they were fading peoples, the Dwarves and the Elves. Men were changeable, passionate, rising and falling with the ages, but the Firstborn and the Children of Aulë simply remained. And even if all their hopes bore fruit, even if their little one made his torturous way to the mountain of doom and succeeded, even if the Shadow was cast down forever- even then, the Age of Men would be at hand, and the Elves would sail, and the Dwarves retreat to the deepest of their halls, slowly. And that was a doom that he could not fully comprehend, try as he might.

Maybe that was it, the spark he had seen between them. Gandalf had raised an irascible eyebrow at him, when he raised the issue weeks ago in Hollin. Admittedly, at that point, no one in their right mind would have suggested that the Dwarf and the Elf might one day find true fellowship, for they had spent the better part of day and night sniping at each other. But still he had felt it.

Young lords of their peoples, born into a time of darkness, raised with all the pride and fire of their races and with all their sorrows too: yes, the souls of Legolas of Elves and Gimli of Dwarves were more akin than they thought.

So he leaned forward, and broke their little contest. For their doom was upon them, and the time for old grudges and unfounded hatreds was long past.

"Lasgalen lies in the shadow of great evil, Legolas. Is it not beautiful?"

The elven prince stilled, all his stubbornness honed to a point. Aragorn waited. He knew it would rankle to compare Legolas's beloved forest to this dark place. But was it not equally hard for Gimli to look upon the long-abandoned, ransacked ruin of his people's dreams? All lots were bitter in this game skewed by the shadow in the East, but if they stood together...

"Diminished, but beautiful nonetheless." Gimli was staring into the dark, seeing the scenes of his people's craft and glory, no doubt. But he cast a quick look at Legolas as well, and there was an openness there that had not been shown before.

Legolas, too, looked into the dark, and for the first time, there was something beyond blank fear and mistrust in his gaze. "The stone remembers your people," he murmured. "And evil encroaches, but it does not submit."

Behind them, Aragorn saw their figures, so different in form, assume the same stance for a fleeting second, and suddenly he was seeing these two stalwart warriors in a different place, on a field of blood and metal. But they stood together, and did not quail. Gimli's axe sang, of fire and gold, bright as his spirit. Legolas's bow was its harmony, a melody of all growing things. And they cut a path through their enemies, the dark ones cowering before the pair, falling back before the fell light in their eyes, the same light that shone from them both, and they laughed together before the ranks of evil-

"Aragorn!" He blinked, and the vision was gone. Legolas had vanished as well, evidently unwilling to display any sort of sympathy towards the Dwarf for long. Gimli bent beside him, offering a hand; the Fellowship was moving. But as he looked up at the Dwarf he saw instead Glóin, and Gróin, and their fathers and their fathers, their brothers and their sisters, the Dwarves who reclaimed their motherlands again and again, no matter how many times they were struck down and cast away. For, after all, they had been driven from the Lonely Mountain, but Oakenshield would not accept that. And this weighty shadow in Moria had chased Durin's folk from it long ago, but Balin son of Fundin would not allow that. And now here was Gimli, son of his fathers, tracing the lines on the walls, promising to restore glory for glory, beauty for beauty in a time of peace he still hoped for.

Just as the Elves of Mirkwood held to their stronghold even in the pall of Dol Guldur, just as they nurtured and nourished the trees even when orcs trampled all living things, burned and slashed the forests... the Elves sang to the trees, and again and again, they replanted.

"Seeds, and bare stone," he said softly, and with a smile he took Gimli's hand.


End file.
